There comes a time when every biker pulls over to soak up the warm sunshine, smoke a long hooter, take a dump on the side of the road and feel the golden oak leaves as they gently caress his backside. It is during times like these that a little poetry will go a long ways. And since not all bros are gifted in the art of rhyming verse, I have taken it upon my literary self to jot down several lovely poems that you, the reader can print out and take with you. Just stuff them in your saddle bags, or perhaps up your ass and the next time you stop to puke or just to make an effort to control the bleeding, you?ll have with you a bikernet poem worthy of framing. Sorry, I was told never to use the word ?frame? in any context.
Ode to the DMV
DMV scoundrels, winged miscreants, rotted breath,
Wretched sots, spewing technicalities, through vulgar holes,
Unkempt.
Thieves and swine,
Ghastly polyester,
A female supervisor whose name is Chester.
Red tape whores,
Overweight bores,
Lines to the horizon,
Black government comedy,
Your stamp of approval,
You shall not put on me.
License plates be damned,
Registration I know not.
Shove your rules up your arse,
Man this is good pot.
Car People
Asshola, Asshola! Hear ye my cry?
See my gun barrel, pointed at your eye?
How I covet your death knell,
The bell tolls for thee.
But we won?t kill you quickly,
First we?ll break both your knees.
And when you complain,
And rest assured, you will,
We?ll dunk your head in our Jack Daniels still.
Then we?ll chop off your arms
And burn you alive,
And bury you upside down,
In your four-wheeled ride.
Twat, O? Glorious Twat
Rank cavern,
Flecked with engine oil,
Spotted with grasshoppers,
Flawed with a boil.
Loose as a pillowcase,
Twisted and scarred,
Big as a grizzly,
Wide as a yard.
A piece of art,
Still our eye beholds,
When you?ve been for 20 days,
On the lonely road.
A few beers,
A Jack or six,
And offensive maladies,
Our whiskey goggles will fix.
We?ll roll you around,
Knock the cobwebs off your snatch,
And tell the bros the next day that we made quite a catch.
We?ll itch as we ride,
For the next thirty days,
Scratching and complaining,
As we ride away.
